By Pat Murphy McClelland

In the last six months of World War IIArmy men with shaved headsknock on the doorof our house filled with shadow.My father strides downa long thin brown hall.I trail him toward sun glareon beveled glass, prisms dancingdiamonds on his blinding white shirtshining his curly hair to jet stone.I am four, oldest daughtermiddle child among the five.

In no time at allhe’s gonesave for his voicehe sometimes sendson glistening blackvinyl circles we play onour hand-cranked phonographworn needle skipping grooves.Beneath the crackle, the soundof him is faint: “Tell momto set your hair in ringletswe have a date when I get home.”

At the end of year tenof college my father standsalone at my commencement.My mother called in sick.Hair now pewter grayshades hiding hazel eyeshe sports a Christmas gifttie, gaudy silk that argues withhis green plaid coat. Shockingit was, his showing upto see me finish, convincedas he was, I never wouldwhich drove me to it.

Through a quick dark cloudof tossed caps and gownsI watch my father make his wayacross the campus lawn, veiledin a blue haze of Camel smoke.I feel his prim hug withholdinglove, words do not occur to him.I search his face for the fleetinconspicuous tics that hidelove and pride in Irish men.

Back home, he decants champagnecalls to mom hiding out in bed –she declines to join the celebration.He makes a toast to my ambition.Alcohol ends his silence and ravelsreticence that always makes me crossthe line to inference. He hands meon the sly an unsigned Hallmark cardnods toward a pile of silver ribbonand scarlet tissue in the dining room.“A present,” he says with an airof diffidence, “I found it at a pawn shop.”

His gift stunned – a primo classicbesting his inspired 1940savant-garde prototype of Barbie –a pebbled leaden gray 1954Royal typewriter with glossygreen, white lettered keysthat clacked staccato harmonyon onion skin with carbonsin between, that inscribedmy young and deathless prosein black Times Roman, tipped with red.Until I lost it in a move.

Despite his flair for choosing presentsmy censored father stayed a mysteryuntil the day he died, a vet run downagainst his will in a military hospitalhair thin, long, white, stringybeard matted, bony arms pokingthrough the open spacesof flimsy gowns and blanketshis face a lighter shadeof the pea green concrete wall.

Hard to please right up to the endhe spurns my goodbye gift –clam chowder, the New England kindmemory thought he’d like.“Too sweet,” he gripes.The final iterationof a lifelong point of view.

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